"Alright then."
Kairo exhaled slowly, breath curling faintly in the air like smoke. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his blood-forged sword, veins pulsing red as if the weapon itself were an extension of his bloodstream.
The shift in his stance was minimal—but unmistakable. Weight centered. Shoulders loose. Gaze locked ahead like a predator about to pounce.
He was ready to move.
And his team? Already falling into sync. No hand signals. No verbal commands.
Just instinct.
Mio raised both hands, thin silver threads materializing between his fingers like spider silk. They caught the dying sunlight in quick, lethal flashes.
He wove them effortlessly, forming a mesh that hovered and swayed with his every gesture, tension lining the space around him.
Zaira tilted her head, her irises gleaming faintly violet. Her lips twitched—not quite a smile, not quite a warning.
